Paella Hari Minggu

Setiap hari Minggu selama yang bisa diingatnya, kakek Inés selalu membuat paella. Bukan jenis yang dimakan turis di restoran murah dekat pantai, tapi yang lambat, dengan tulang dan saffron dan kelinci di hari yang baik. Dia membuatnya di teras dengan api kayu yang dinyalakannya sendiri, bahkan sekarang ketika usianya delapan puluh tiga tahun.

Every Sunday for as long as she could remember, Inés's grandfather had made paella. Not the kind tourists ate in cheap restaurants by the beach, but the slow kind, with bones and saffron and rabbit on a good day. He made it on the patio over a wood fire he started himself, even now that he was eighty-three.

Minggu ini Inés pulang dari Madrid untuk menemuinya. Dia lebih kurus dari terakhir kali. Gerakannya lebih hati-hati. Tapi ketika dia masuk ke teras, kakeknya sudah berjongkok di dekat api, mengatur kayu dengan tongkat besi panjang.

This Sunday Inés had come home from Madrid to see him. He was thinner than the last time. He moved more carefully. But when she walked into the patio, he was already crouched by the fire, adjusting the logs with a long iron stick.

"Kamu terlambat," katanya, tanpa menoleh. Dia selalu mengatakan ini meskipun Inés datang lebih awal.

"You're late," he said, without turning around. He always said this even when she was early.

Inés berlutut di sampingnya dan melihat ke panci. Nasi baru mulai menyerap kaldu. Dapur di belakang mereka berbau bawang putih dan rosemary. Neneknya ada di suatu tempat di dalam, membanting piring ke meja.

She knelt next to him and looked at the pan. The rice was just starting to absorb the broth. The kitchen behind them smelled like garlic and rosemary. Her grandmother was somewhere inside, banging plates onto the table.

Dia menunjuk ke panci dengan tongkatnya. "Kamu jaga yang ini. Jangan diaduk. Orang yang mengaduk paella tidak mengerti paella."

He pointed at the pan with his stick. "You watch this one. Don't stir it. People who stir paella don't understand paella."

Inés tidak bergerak selama tiga puluh menit. Dia melihat nasi berubah warna, melihat bagian bawah panci mengering dan kecokelatan, melihat kakeknya mengawasinya. Ketika akhirnya dia mengangkat panci dari api, dia mengangguk sekali. Inés tidak perlu dia mengatakan apa-apa lagi.

Inés didn't move for thirty minutes. She watched the rice change color, watched the bottom of the pan catch and brown, watched her grandfather watch her. When he finally took the pan off the fire, he nodded once. She did not need him to say anything else.